


Just Socks

by creativian



Series: This Might Be Something [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativian/pseuds/creativian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rainstorm prevents Isaac from leaving an old friend's house after a late night study session.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Socks

There are four sounds of which I am currently (and oh so acutely) aware: the scratch of our pencils as we put our words on paper, the ticking of the clock hanging on the dining room wall behind me, the deep roll of thunder signalling an oncoming thunderstorm, and the mind-bogglingly loud thump of my heart beating faster than it should be. I'm just thankful that he can't hear the last one. Or, at least, I don't think he can...I mean, it's beating fairly fast and really loudly, so who knows. Oh, God, I hope he can't hear it. I glance up at him. He's sitting across the table from me, bent studiously over his textbook with one hand resting on the back of his neck and the other scribbling down notes. His soft brown hair curls across his forehead and around his ears, his long lashes shading his pale blue eyes from view and casting a shadow across his sharp cheekbones. I sit there, staring at him for a little bit, watching him exist. I watch the way he chews his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his head bobs up and down almost undetectably as he reads the paragraphs silently to himself, and the way he constantly fidgets with his pencil whenever he's not writing. After what has to have been at least a minute, he finally looks up and catches me observing him.

"...what is it? Is there something on my face?" Isaac asks quietly, a smile curling across half of his thin lips. I shake my head to clear it.  
"Uh, sorry, I must've spaced out there for a little bit," I answer, sitting back in my chair, lacing my fingers together, and stretching my arms out in front of me as I work up a convincing yawn. Nice save. He tilts his head at me and raises an eyebrow.  
"Well, it is getting kind of late. I should probably actually go. I don't want to keep you up all night," he says, nodding towards the clock. I turn and look; it's already past eleven thirty. As Isaac shuffles his books and papers into his backpack, I stand and walk to the window. I can see fleeting flashes of white as lightning cuts across the invisibly dark clouds above.  
"It's going to rain soon," Isaac says softly as he slings his backpack across his shoulders and steps around the dining room table, joining me by the window.  
"Are you sure? The lightning looks kind of far away," I reply, focusing on what lay outside, yet very aware of his proximity to me. I can't help it. I'm nervous by nature, especially around those of the male gender who I haven't known since kindergarten. Isaac and I have known each other since the start of freshman year, and while we usually hang out with different groups, I still consider him one of my closer friends. He reaches forward and unlatches the window, pushing it open slightly before answering.  
"Can't you smell it?" I lean forward a bit and take a deep breath. The heavy scent of rain is thick in the air, and growing gradually stronger by the second.  
"Yeah..." I say, smiling a bit, "I guess you're right."  
"As usual. That's actually one of my favorite smells in the whole world," he admits, giving me a sidelong glance and grin before walking away. I follow him through the living room to my front door, which he opens before turning towards me.  
"Thanks for letting me come over to study, and sorry again that I stayed so late. I--um--I guess I'll come over tomorrow after lacrosse practice again? Is that okay? Or--?"  
"Yeah, that'll be fine. It's not like I really have anything to do after school anyway," I interject. Smooth. He laughs, and I'm almost certain my pulse doubles for a second. I need to get a freaking grip. I've known him for three years. I should be over stuff like this by now.  
"Okay, good. I'll see you tomorrow. Now give me a hug goodbye and then go to bed!" he says, grabbing my right wrist and tugging me gently into his arms. The smell of rain pours in through the open door and surrounds us, and I close my eyes, resting my cheek against his chest for just a second before pulling back.

"Alright, you got your hug, now get out of my house," I tease, pushing on his chest as he steps backward through the doorway.  
"Ooh, harsh!" he cries, laughing as I shut the door. I turn and lean my back against it, trying (for at least a minute) to bite back the ridiculously girly smile that's forcing its way onto my lips. Whatever. Despite Isaac's instructions, I have no intentions of going to bed now. I shuffle slowly into the kitchen and head straight to the fridge. I'm perusing its meager contents, pondering what sort of snack I can whip up with minimal effort required on my part, when an ear-splitting clap of thunder shakes my entire house like an earthquake. As the rumbling subsides, fat raindrops begin smacking against the windowpanes. Within seconds it becomes a cacophonous downpour. Did Isaac drive here? I hope he's not out walking in the rain. I shut the fridge and switch to the freezer, reaching into an open and frost-covered box of Eggo waffles and pulling out two frozen circles of plastic-y goodness. As I put them in the toaster and set the timer, I hear a faint sound above the pounding rain. I pause. It comes again: it's a knock. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I walk back to the front door and peer through the small glass window beside it. Suppressing a laugh, I open the door.

Isaac stands on my porch, positively soaking wet. His hair sticks to his forehead and temples, water running from the tips of it and into his apologetic eyes. His white shirt is drenched through and stuck tight to his skin. His jeans, which had been blue several minutes earlier, were now so soaked now looked black.

"Hey. So. Uh. Can I come in please?" He shivers slightly.  
"And what, flood my house? You're dripping wet!" I laugh.  
"I noticed!" he cries, stepping inside as I move out of the way and motion him in.  
"Come on, let's get you into the bathroom so that you can dry off," I order, herding him down the hallway towards the first door on the right, "wring your stuff out in the tub, and I'll get you a towel." He drips water down the entire corridor, and as soon as he stands still in the tiny bathroom, a puddle of water begins forming around him.

"Thanks," he calls after me as I cross the hall and open the closet, searching for a clean guest towel. I grab a particularly fluffy red one from the second highest shelf and walk back into the bathroom. And there he is, leaning over the tub, his shirt removed and in his hands as he wrings a bucketful of water out of it. I let my eyes flit over Isaac's lean, toned body for a moment, taking in the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders move as he twists the fabric between his fingers. My gaze lingers for a moment too long, and he turns and catches me watching him. He chuckles slightly and winks at me. I feel my cheeks heat up and I'm almost entirely sure that my face is several shades closer to matching the towel in my hand.

"My eyes are up here," he says, flicking the water on his fingertips at me. I flinch away, and he laughs.  
"Oh, so you wanna play that game?" I ask, tossing the towel at him. As he catches it, I quickly turn on the sink faucet and cup my hand under the flow of water. Before he can move to defend himself, I fling the entire handful of water at him, giggling as his face shifts from a triumphant smirk to a comical grimace.  
"It. Is. On." Just like that, we begin furiously flinging water at one another, our aim anything but accurate, laughing as we slip around on the increasingly wet tiles of the bathroom floor. I'm about to turn to reload my hands in the sink when he tries to make a lunge for me. Unfortunately, he doesn't take into account the slickness of the floor, and he slides right into me, sending us both crashing into the edge of the sink.  
"Ahah-ouch!" I wheeze, trying to sound as serious as possible while laughing. Isaac reaches around me and turns off the taps with both of his hands, pinning my arms to my sides in the process to prevent me from making any counterattacks. His face is inches from mine, a playful grin stretching across his face and lighting up his eyes. I find myself staring at his lips, unable to ignore how close they are to my own. We fall silent. His grin slowly fades. I feel my eyelids flutter nervously as I look up into his eyes. They're so clear, so alive, and so...different. I think I lean in a little closer, and I think he does the same.

"I win," he murmurs. My stomach flips, pushing my heart into my throat. I blink.  
"I--I think my waffles are done," I reply hoarsely. GOOD GOD. He laughs softly, resting his forehead against mine.  
"Go get your waffles. I'll get dry."

And with that, he turns away. I gulp my heart back down into my chest before scurrying out of the room and back into the kitchen. I brace my hands on the countertop and hang my head for a moment, inhaling slowly and letting out a long sigh. After allowing myself time to clear my head, I reach up into the overhead cupboard and pull out a plate. My waffles are waiting diligently for me in the toaster, so I pluck them out, butter them, and toss them on the plate before crouching down to search the lower cabinets for the syrup.

"Hey, what should I do with my clothes? They're still pretty wet," Isaac calls from the bathroom.  
"Put them in the dryer on high for a few minutes," I reply, snatching Mrs. Butterworth from her hiding spot at the back of the shelf. I hear the creak of the shutter door to the laundry room as Isaac opens it, and the faint beep of buttons as he turns on the dryer. Tea, I decide suddenly, I want tea. I push down the tab on the electric kettle before smothering my waffles with an unhealthily healthy amount of sticky syrupy goodness.  
"Do you want something to eat? Or drink? Like waffles or tea or hot chocolate or something?" I shout, licking the sticky residue from the bottle off of my fingers as I wait for a reply. When several seconds pass, I assume he didn't hear me over the sound of the dryer. Oh well. I grab a knife and fork out of the drawer to my left before reaching back up into the cupboard and retrieving a mug.

"Um...I think I'll go with tea," Isaac answers. I jump slightly in surprise, almost dropping my cup. His voice is much closer than I expected. I look over my shoulder and see him standing in the doorway, leaning nonchalantly against the frame, wearing nothing but a pair of dark blue boxer shorts with little white paw prints all over them and a pair of socks. White, fuzzy, fluffy socks. I try to stifle my laughter, but promptly fail and burst into gales of (mildly unladylike) cackling.  
"What?" he asks, a shy smile creeping across his face, "why are you laughing?" He crosses his arms self consciously and looks at me with one brow raised expectantly.  
"You--your--your socks!" I wheeze, barely able to get the words out between giggles.  
"What about my--," he looks down. Then back up at me. His face changes from amused to horrified, "I completely forgot I was wearing these today. I--um--I am really trying to come up with a good explanation as to why I have these--uh--". I just shake my head.  
"Don't. You don't have to. They're cute," I say, my laughter subsiding into a smile. His face relaxes as well, and he walks into the kitchen, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.  
"You don't think they're stupid or something?" I turn back to the cupboard and grab another mug.  
"No. I don't. They actually look really comfy," I reply, reaching into another cabinet and grabbing a box of Earl Grey from the shelf and removing two bags of tea.  
"Well they are," he confirms as he slides onto one of the stools at the kitchen island. I pick up my plate and put it on the island across from him before cutting myself a bite. I can feel Isaac's eyes on me as I do so.  
"...I'm guessing you want this?" I ask, rolling my eyes.  
"Yes please," he answers, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the fork from my hand, "I just want the one bite though. The rest is yours."  
"Oh really? Well thank you for letting me eat my own food," I tease, smacking his hand lightly as he hands me back my now empty utensil. The tab on the kettle pops back up with a click, and I quickly take a bite of my now only mildly warm waffles before turning and pouring the hot water into our mugs.  
"Do you usually eat breakfast food this late at night?" Isaac asks as I turn back to the island while sucking a stray bit of syrup off of his thumb.  
"I am in a constant state of eating breakfast food," I reply with a laugh, giving my attention back to my waffles and taking another bite.

He smiles at me. Such a simple, genuine smile. The smile that made me want to know him in the very first time I saw him. Though so much else about him has changed since last year, from time to time that familiar old grin will grace his lips. I still wonder what really happened to him. I know his father was murdered, and I know that hit him hard, but it wasn't nearly as hard as his father used to. There was something else. I know it. He wouldn't be in school for days at a time. I started always seeing him with people I didn't even know he knew. I didn't pry, didn't ask; I still don't. But I'm always worried about him. Sometimes, it's like he's a completely different person. A stranger, dark and cold and distant. I shake my head to clear it; I'm not going to waste the precious time I have with him when he's his old self worrying about what it's like when he's not.

"You want milk and sugar in your tea?" I ask, trying to make my voice sound as light as possible.  
"Yeah...lots of sugar, please," Isaac replies, his relaxed grin still on his face. My heart skips a beat when I look at his eyes. I bite my lip as I remove the tea bags and throw them away, trying to get rid of the tingling sensation running up and down my spine. I know it's there because he's watching me. Ignore it.

"So, I was wondering...where are your parents?" I almost spill the milk I'm pouring into my mug all over the counter.  
"W-well," I begin, clearing my throat before continuing, "my dad's on a business trip and my mom's visiting her mother down in New Mexico."  
"Good." I put the milk away and grab the sugar bowl from the corner of the counter.  
"Why is that good?"  
"Because...I was thinking I should stay the night here," he explains. I turn around, mugs in hand, and shoot him a quizzical look.  
"Why?" He takes his cup from me, his fingertips lingering for a moment on the back of my hand. I look away, hoping against hope that my blush doesn't show.  
"This storm isn't going to quit anytime soon, and it's already almost midnight. Considering it's a school night, I just think it'd be in my best educational interests to stay here and go to bed as early as I can. You know what they say about getting a good night's sleep." I nod slowly, thinking it over. I'm about to say okay when he takes a sip of his tea. And spills it. All over himself. I try so hard to keep from laughing that I think I might explode. Instead, I grab a towel hanging on the oven door handle behind me and walk over to him. Isaac's biting back laughter as well, his shoulders shaking slightly from the effort. Wordlessly, I place the towel in his lap: and the tension snaps. We both burst out laughing, and he hides his head in his hands, embarrassed. I pick the towel back up and grab his arm, turning him to face me. He peeks out at me from between his fingers as I wipe up his chest and stomach. Gently, I grab hold of his hands and move them away from his face, cleaning his neck and finally his chin. We're both still giggling, and when I'm finished he takes the towel from my hand. He places it on the counter before returning his attention to me. He's not laughing now, but there's a smirk on his lips. Before I can say anything, Isaac takes both of my hands in his, his fingers smoothly entwining with mine until our palms are touching.

"Do you want to know what I really like about you?" he murmurs, pulling me closer to him.  
"I'm great at cleaning up tea spills?" I ask, looking down, looking to my left, looking anywhere but those bright eyes so close to mine.  
"No," he chuckles, "it's that no matter what I do, no matter how embarrassing or ridiculous or silly it is, you always smile. You always laugh. And that makes me feel just a little bit less like an idiot."  
"You're not an idiot," I say, biting my lip and continuing to avoid his gaze, "you're just...funny." Isaac leans forward and rests his forehead against mine.  
"Look at me," he whispers. And I do. Our eyes meet for a moment. And then they close as Isaac leans forward, removes that small gap remaining between us, and puts his lips to mine.

They're gentle, and warm, just a little bit chapped, and just a little bit perfect. I can feel my pulse pounding and my face flushing as we pull apart for a few seconds. His thumbs trace circles on my wrists, and just like that we're kissing again. I feel a little lightheaded, but his touch steadies me. I can't tell if it's a minute or an hour before we separate by several inches again, but when we do he whispers a question.

"So, can I stay?" I open my eyes and look into his, my heartbeat slowing back to normal, my nerves calming.  
"Please stay." He grins, cups my face in his hands, and kisses me again.


End file.
